


Rhinestone

by Greykite



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accel Zero, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternative Fourth Grail War, F/F, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23716798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greykite/pseuds/Greykite
Summary: "I have no desires. I only have a purpose."
Relationships: Irisviel von Einzbern & Arturia Pendragon | Saber, Irisviel von Einzbern/Arturia Pendragon | Saber
Kudos: 44





	Rhinestone

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Горный хрусталь](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/602737) by Серый Коршун. 



> Based on the AU from the event "Accel Zero" in Fate/Grand Order: the Einzberns did not need the help from a mercenary from outside for the Fourth Grail War.

“I am the highest point of Einzbern’s craft”, says Irisviel. Her hands do not flinch, the tea stream does not move from the center of the porcelain сup even by a hair's-breadth. “Our clan no longer has something to strive for, except of the Heavens’ Feel. Everything else is a pointless waste of resources.” 

She looks up. Her eyes are as serene as clear mountain ice.

(Ice stained with blood - long frozen, no longer disturbed by the echoes of past wars.)

But something flickers there, like the shadow of a grass that died before arrival of spring; a kind of longing, vague, unconscious.

The Saber-class servant clutches the cup tighter with both her hands. Shifts in her chair, as if trying to make herself comfortable, and then freezes again.

Next to this perfect statue in white, the snow-princess, all her own gestures look awkward, redundant; although she thought that she had long ago acquired the parsimony and precision of movements without which you can not achieve mastery in combat.

She shouldn't have asked that question. Certainly.

(Nor any other. But even if she wanted to imagine her life as one of a service, and nothing else, she was not only a knight — she was also a king.)

She doesn't avert her gaze, though, even if it takes a lot of courage to hold it straight.

“I just wanted clarity between us. Please forgive me, my lady, if I have unwittingly crossed the line.”

And she would like to force herself regret such actions; but...

"The line?" asks Irisviel; the slightest change in intonation — only marking of a question, not an emotion. “The line exists where there is something personal.”

...she had to much regrets already; it was almost all she had left at the end.

"It is indeed something personal," Irisviel continues, putting down the teapot (both cups now contain equal amounts of liquid; even the Servant's vision does not find a difference), "that creates separateness. Isolation. The source of other desires that are not provided for in the sample.”

Saber takes a sip. A subtle herbal scent rises to her nostrils.

“I beg to slightly disagree, my lady.” She pauses for a moment, choosing her words. “These matters are also present where there is... the hierarchy. Status. The rules that we swear to abide by and which we follow.”

And even when broken, they still have power.

“Really.” Irisviel tilts her head to shoulder. “But you see, Saber... Even if there is a system of rules defined by the ritual of the Grail, there is no status that is special to me. For what you might call _me_. There are magic circuits arranged in a certain way, and around them exists the body that was recreated on the model of the honored Justicia. This body was given a name — "Irisviel von Einzbern" - and the instinct of self-preservation. And that's all.”

It seems that here Irisviel should have moved her shoulder a little, just a little. But this does not happen.

Only one white strand, as if seizing the moment, escapes from the interweaving of glittering gold ribbons in Irisviel's hair. Touches the milky white skin with a casual caress.

“So the statement remains true: I have no desires. I only have a purpose.”

Irisviel doesn't touch her own cup. Her arms are crossed on the table, covered with embroidered sleeves that look like cut-off wings.

Saber finishes her tea, no longer tasting it.

Irony. What a bitter irony, if you just think about it.

The perfect princess (the perfect homunculus) sits opposite the perfect knight-king (the perfect symbol).

“Then I can only do my best to aid you in this quest, my lady."

Her voice is muffled.

But her sword will remain sharp and fast; that is exactly what is required of her, isn't it?..

“My family doesn't expect anything else. Otherwise, you wouldn't have been called to war. However — " There is a sudden stutter in the perfect, diamond melody of Irisviel's voice. She raises her hand, straightening the lock of hair, tucking it behind her ear in an almost unconscious gesture. Almost spontaneous, perhaps. “You don't seem satisfied with my explanation. Despite the fact that you wanted clarity yourself.”

Now her gaze seems almost questioning. Although even this is more of a requirement, however mild; not a question per se.

“If you'll allow me to be honest…”

(But is it worth asking permission if you know - you don't intend to wait for it?)

“If you will allow me," Saber continues, "it seems to me a great misfortune when a living being does not have a dream and desires born of it." She says it after a heartbeat of utter silence. "Even for me, a Servant, it is desire that gives me life here.”

This is not the whole truth.

But there's only so much truth she can bear right now.

Irisviel looks down. Looks at her palms — the left hand is again lying on top of the right: restrained, measured.

“I am different from your by nature, Saber. You can't change that with your regrets. My lack of personal desires should be seen as an advantage to you, actually.”

It seems to be followed by "if...", and this puzzles Saber — but only for a moment. She blinks — and forgets how to breathe, as if a sword had pierced her chest. Because Irisviel is looking at her again, eye to eye, and for the first time a shadow falls on Irisviel's snow-white face - either a blush or an attempt to remember something that had no place in this existence, in this chain of the choices. Shaded, this face — paradoxically - shines only brighter.

“But I can grant you your wish. If I recognize you.”

Irisviel moves her hands - the graceful, smooth and easy movement - across the polished surface of the table.

Her hands should have been cold; in fairy tales, the daughter of the ice giants, who inhabited the snow-capped mountains, froze the unfortunate traveler with a touch and a kiss.

But they are warm against Saber's skin.

"I'll make sure no one else gets near you, my lady," Saber says. Her voice is hoarse, a tone or two lower than usual.

Irisviel smiles.

Her smile is the reflection of the midday sun on a glittering glacier. Blinding and not warming; but she tries her best.

(Even if it brings tears to Saber’s eyes, but she blinks them away without giving attention.)

“Your reactions are different from expected. It shouldn't be like this. It puzzles me.” The crystal of Irisviel's voice cracks slightly, letting out a glint of light, a bubble of air. Almost a laugh. "Strange, isn't it? However, I notice that I like it. Continue to behave as you see fit, Saber.”

Saber tightens her grip on the translucent, deceptively fragile fingers of her Master.

She should have fought for her, for this snow-enchanted maiden. Not for the Holy Grail.

So that this maiden could experience happiness.

(Experience something that Artoria, known in legend as King Arthur, has always been denied).

Except...

It was a desperate, last, final desire that had brought her here, to this War.

Can one longing outweigh the other?

(Could it ever?)

“I stay true to myself. I won't hide it. If it really gives you pleasure, my lady. If — " she adds in a burst of courage, "it gives you the chance to smile more often.”

Her Master shakes her head slightly. The same measured movement as all the others. A measured, light, unencumbered doubt.

But still - she does not withdraw her hands.

From the open window — which has remained open all the time of their strange tea party (neither of them, nor the Servant, nor the homunculus created among the ice fields, feels the cold — as normal people do) — snowflakes fly into the room of the castle. Fly up to ceiling and settle on Irisviel’s hair, just like a discreet crown.

They don't even seem to melt.


End file.
